By Hannah Morris-Voth
March 22, 2021
Relatable to the well and unwell alike, a comfort perhaps in unprecedented times, a proposition to be considered events notwithstanding: Virginia Woolf’s essay, “On Being Ill” challenges the common topics of fiction and elaborates on the finest points of illness. Drawing together her analytical thoughts, as well as fragments of her prose style, this essay encapsulates moments we all know. Here are a few of my considerations on this classic piece of writing.
In “On Being Ill”, Woolf denounces the lack of fictional writing on illness. There are books on love and war and jealousy—all those flights of emotional fancy—but there is comparatively very little written around the subject of illness. Woolf cites critics of this subject who propose that any such writing would lack passion or invite inevitable repetition. The reasons are all, in the end, deemed insufficient by Woolf, and, in fact, entirely incorrect. Indeed, if anything, illness grants all of this and more. It can, if utilized carefully, be not only a fascinating and compelling subject, but also, in some limited way, a long-term advantage: any experience with illness leaves a stronger soul in its wake.
Woolf writes incredibly precise and moving depiction of the effects and emotions called up by illness and much of what she suggests aligns with the experience of long and drawn-out illness. A few points that rung true from my reading included her proposition that one is more likely to read poetry than the drudge of fiction when ill. Immediacy, Woolf suggests, is the attraction of poetry. I concur: good poetry strikes quickly to the heart of any emotion, any sensation, and that fire combats the malaise of long illness—of any illness—and grants the mind respite; or, if not that, then a thought to ponder in the hours of stillness enforced by a worn body.
From reading On Being Ill, I found myself inspired by Woolf’s proposition—here she has made the topic of illness sparkle with the same emotional draw as any other subject, she had proved her point. Why is it that fiction still lacks exploration of such a common and relatable experience? And, in fact, contains as a result numerous facets that may not be immediately apparent. I would like to add that Woolf points out that thorough thought, clear and complete, can result from the time one is stilled by illness. I could elaborate on this: such focus is often exquisitely singular, drawing out from its subject every piece of insight that can be extracted, sharpening the mind by necessity—an ill body allows limited (and therefore specified) expenditure of force. If wielded right, this is a tremendously useful, uniquely granted tool. Perhaps this, I would like to suggest to Woolf, is the most interesting subject of all.